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gri_2003_m_46_b02_f04_005

Transcribers

  1. 65456747 - BronteAlcott
  2. 65549670 - nltrose
  3. WINNER - 65602914 - srasg56
  4. 65669939 - k.h.pot
  5. 65799355 - not-logged-in-858456110ecb60407a3a
  6. 66199594 - SailorVal

65456747 - BronteAlcott

3

A woman yesterday told me that her father had seen Holman Hunt work. 'For hours', she added feeling that I was insufficiently impressed. Of course I was unimpressed. Hadn't I the day before been talking to the sister of the late Charles Sims. Ah, the delirious memories she roused (like sluggish bubbles in a swamp whose appearance on the surface & consequent bursting cannot dispel the scum): Ricketts, Shannon. 'Yes', I agree, 'an artist is often unappreciated in his own life-time'.

A man, a farm labourer, looked at the Braque & said it was like a picture by someone who had been to [sic] 'the horrors of drink.' 'The horrors of drink,' he repeated hoarsely when I demurred.

Back at The Aubreys 'human nature' is to be seen, also. I believe I mentioned a three-footed dwarf & her husband as fellow guests. The other day in the sunshine they came to sit in the garden & I was not far off. She is a compulsive bitch, given to ordering her contemptible wisp of a husband about. He got her a chair. She sat in it & and then querulously asked for another. Her husband put down his paper, got up, & got another chair for her. She sat there for a minute. Then she sent John upstairs for a rug. Muffled in this she began to knit &, of course, dropped the ball of wool which ran away despite her harsh discordant exclamations of anger. Then she told John she would be more comfortable in the shelter of the house; would he help her to move nearer. She was placed up against the wall. She settled down, pulled the rug to the right shape, adjusted her glasses, got ready to knit when - 'John. John, I'm wet' she cried, struggling in the chair. And, indeed, water was overflowing from the gutter in precise, demure drops . . .

I feel like the poor girl in the film of The First Gentleman who didn't want to go to Holland & hated the Dutch. I am becoming unreasonably antagonistic to the Dutch vision: my former indifference is hardened into dislike.

65549670 - nltrose

3
A woman yesterday told me that her father had seen Molman
Hunt work. "For hours", she added feeling that I was insufficiently
impressed. Of course I was unimpressed. Hadn't I the day before
been talking to the sister of the late Charles Sims. Ah, the delirious
memories she raised (like sluggish bubbles in a sump wouldappear -
once on the surface & consequent bursting cannot dispel the scum):
Richetts, Shannon. "Yes, I agreed," an artist is often unappreciated in his own life-time?
A man, a farm laborer, looked at the Brogue & said it was
like a picture by someone who had been to [sic] "the horrors of drink".
"The horrors of drink", he repeated hoarsely when I demurred.
Back at The Aubreys "human nature" is to be seen, also. I
believe I mentioned a three-footed dwarf & her husband or fellow
guests. The other day in the sunshine they cane to sit in the garden
& I was not far off. She is a compulsive bitch, given to ordering her
contemptible wisp of a husband about. He got her a chair. She sat in
it by son querellously asked for another. Her husband put down his
paper, got up, & got another chair for her. She sat there for a minute. Then she
sent John upstairs for a rug. Muffled in this she began to knit o of
course, dropped the ball of wool which ran away despite her harsh
discordant exclamations of anger. Then she told John she would
be more comfortable in the shelter of the house; would he help her to
move nearer. She was placed against the wall. She settled
down, pulled the rug to the right slope, adjusted her glasses, got
ready to knit when - "John", she cried "John is it raining?"
He looked at the impeccable sky. "John, John, I am wet" she
cried, struggling in the chair. And, indeed, water was overflowing from the gutter
in precise, demure drops...

I feel like the poor girl in the film of The First Gentle-
man who didn't want to go to Holland & hated the Dutch.
Everybody who comes here exclaims - "oh, I like the Dutch".
I am becoming unreasonably antagonist to the Dutch nation/unclear]:
my former indifference is hardened into dislike.

WINNER - 65602914 - srasg56

3
A woman yesterday told me that her father had seen Holman
Hunt work. 'For hours', she added feeling that I was insufficiently
impressed. Of course I was unimpressed. Hadn't I the day before
been talking to the sister of the late Charles Sims. Ah the delirious
memories she roused (like sluggish bubbles in a sump whose appear-
ance on the surface & consequent bursting cannot dispell the scum):
Picketts, Shannon. 'Yes', I agreed, 'an artist is often unappreciated
in his own life-time?

A man, a farm labourer, looked at the Braque & said it was
like a picture by someone who had been to [sic] 'the horrors of drink'.
'The horrors of drink', he repeated hoarsely when I demurred.

Back at the Aubreys 'human nature' is to be seen, also. I
believe I mentioned a three-footed dwarf & her husband as fellow
guests. The other day in the sunshine they came to sit in the garden
& I was not far off. She is a compulsive bitch, given to ordering her
contemptible wisp of a husband about. He got her a chair. She sat in
it & then querulously asked for another. Her husband put down his
paper, got up, & got another chair for her. She sat there for a minute. Then she
sent John upstairs for a rug. Muffled in this she began to knit &, of
course, dropped the ball of wool which ran away despite her harsh
discordant exclamations of anger. Then she told John she would
be more comfortable in the shelter of the house; would he help her to
move nearer. She was placed up against the wall. She settled
down, pulled the rug to the right shape, adjusted her glasses, got
ready to knit when - 'John', she cried 'John, is it raining?'
He looked at the impeccable sky. 'John, John, I'm wet' she
cried, struggling in the chair
And, indeed, water was overflowing from the gutter
in precise, demure, drops...

I feel like the poor girl in the film of The First Gentle-
man who didn't want to go to Holland & hated the Dutch.
Everybody who comes here exclaims - 'Oh I like the Dutch'.
I am becoming unreasonably antagonistic to the Dutch ninion:
My former indifference is hardened into dislike.

65669939 - k.h.pot

3
A woman yesterday told me that her father had seen Holman
Hunt work. 'For hours.' she added feeling that I was insufficiently
impressed. Of course I was unimpressed. Hadn't I the day before
been talking to the sister of the late Charles Sims. Ah, the delirious
memories she roused (like sluggish bubbles in a sump whose appear-
ance on the surface & consequent bursting cannot dispel the scum):
Richetts, Shannon. 'Yes', I agreed, 'an artist is often unappreciated in his own life time.'

A man, a farm labourer, looked at the Broque & said it was
like a picture by someone who had been to [sic] 'the horrors of drink'.
'The horrors of drink,' he repeated hoarsely when I demurred.

Back at The Aubreys 'human nature' is to be seen, also. I
believe I mentioned a three-footed dwarf & her husband as fellow
guests. The other day in the sunshine they came to sit in the garden
& I was not far off. She is a compulsive bitch, given to ordering her
contemptible wisp of a husband about. He got her a chair. She sat in
it & then querulously asked for another. Her husband put down his
paper, got up, & got another chair for her. She sat there for a minute. Then she
sent John upstairs for a rug. Muffled in this she began to knit &, of
course, dropped the ball of wool which ran away despite her harsh
discordant exclamations of anger. Then she told John she would
be more comfortable in the shelter of the house; would he help her to
move nearer. She was placed up against the wall. She settled
down, pulled the rug to the right shape, adjusted her glams, got
ready to knit when - 'John', she cried 'John, is it raining?'
He looked at the impeccable sky. 'John, John, I'm wet' she
cried, struggling in the chair.
And, indeed, water was overflowing from the gutter
in precise, demure drops ...

I feel like the poor girl in the film of The First Gentle-
man who didn't want to go to Holland & hated the Dutch.
Everybody who comes here exclaims - 'Oh I like the Dutch'.
I am becoming unreasonably antagonistic to the Dutch vision:
my former indifference is hardened into dislike.

65799355 - not-logged-in-858456110ecb60407a3a

3

A woman yesterday told me that her father had seen Marnman Huntward. 'For hours' she added feeling that I was insufficiently impressed. Of course I was unimpressed. Hadn't I the day before been talking to the sister of the late Charles Sims. Ah, the delirious memories she roused (like sluggish bubbles in a sump where appearance on the surface & consequent bursting cannot dispell the scum): Pichetts, Shannon. 'Yes', I agreed, 'an artist is often unappreciated in his own life-time'.

A man, a farm labourer, looked at the Braque & said it was like a picture by someone who had been to [sic] 'the horrors of drink.' 'The horrors of drink', he repeated hoarsely when I demurred.

Back at the Aubreys 'human nature' is to be seen, also. I believe I mentioned a three-footed dwarf & her husband as fellow guests. The other day in the sunshine they came to sit in the garden & I was not far off. She is a compulsive bitch, given to ordering her contemptible wisp of a husband about. He got her a chair. She sat in it & then querellously asked for another. Her husband put down his paper, got up, & got another chair for her. She sat there for a minute. Then she sent John upstairs for a rug. Muffled in this she began to knit &, of course, dropped the ball of wool which ran away despite her harsh discordant exclamations of anger. Then she told John she would be more comfortable in the shelter of the house; would he help her to move nearer. She was placed up against the wall. She settled down, pulled the rug to the right shape, adjusted her glasses, got ready to knit when - 'John', she cried 'John, is it raining?' He looked at the impeccable sky. 'John, John, I'm wet' she cried, struggling in the chair. And, indeed, water was overflowing from the gutter in precise, demure drops ...

I feel like the poor girl in the film of The First Gentleman who didn't want to go to Holland & hated the Dutch. Everybody who come here exclaims - 'Oh, I like the Dutch'. I am becoming unreasonably antagonistic to the Dutch vision: my former indifference is hardened into dislike.

66199594 - SailorVal

3
A woman told me yesterday that her father had seen Holman
Hunt work. 'For hours', she added feeling that I was insufficiently
impressed. Of course I was unimpressed. Hadn't I the day before
been talking to the sister of the lat Charlie Sims. Ah, the delirious
memories she roused (like sluggish bubbles in a sump whose appear-
ance on the surface & consequent bursting cannot dispel the scum):
Ricketts, Shannon. 'Yes', I agreed,' an artist is often unappreciated
in his own life-time'.
A man, a farm labourer, looked at the Braque & said it was
like a picture by someone who had been to [sic] 'the horrors of drink'.
'The horrors of drink', he repeated hoarsley when I demurred.
Back at The Sudneys 'human nature' is to be seen, also. I
believe I mentioned a three-footed derang & her husband as fellow
guests. The other day in the sunshine they came to sit in the garden
& I was not far off. She is a compulsive bitch, given to ordering her
contemptible wisp of a husband about. He got her a chair. She sat in
it & then querellously asked for another. Her husband put down his
paper, got up, & got another chair for her. She sat there for a minute. Then she
sent John upstairs for a rug. Muffled in this, she began to knit &, of
course, dropped the ball of wool which ran away despite her loud
discordant exclamations of anger. Then she told John she would
be more comfortable in the shelter of the house; would he help her to
move nearer. She was placed up against the wall, She settled
down, pulled the rug to the right shape, adjusted her glasses, got
ready to knit when - 'John', she cried 'John, is it raining?'
He looked at the impeccable sky. 'John, John, I'm wet', she
cried, struggling in the chair.
And, indeed, water was overflowing from the gutter
in precise, demure, drops...
I feel like the poor girl in the film of The First Gentle-
man who didn't want to go to Holland & hated the Dutch.
Everybody who comes here exclaims - 'Oh I like the Dutch'.
I am becoming unreasonably antagonistic to the Dutch visitors:
my former indifference is hardened into dislike.

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